


mother tongue

by rojohbi



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Elvhen Language, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-08-22 09:18:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16595147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rojohbi/pseuds/rojohbi
Summary: Needless to say, Falhashani Lavellan takes the world by storm. Dorian looks on and tries to convince himself he wouldn’t like to be in the eye of it.





	mother tongue

**Author's Note:**

> This entire fic was just an excuse to be a linguistics nerd. I used the incredible guide called Project Elvhen by FenxShiral. I definitely butchered it, but I had so much fun doing it that it hardly matters. Follow the key at the bottom of the chapter instead of the actual guide, because I took a lot of liberties considering that I don’t have any invested knowledge in actual linguistics. I just get bored of the same ten phrases used in everything and I thought, well, why not try something new? Lavellan’s accented Trade Tongue is based as closely as I could on how Elvhen translates directly.
> 
> Also, I know that canonically no one actually speaks fluent Elvhen anymore. But I also think that the way BioWare treats elves and their history is stupid so I’m gon’ go ahead and, like, do whatever I want. :)

The Inquisitor is a walking conundrum, somehow both everything Dorian expected from the rumors drifting north and also entirely unexpected in every way imaginable. Dark plaited hair and every angle of him knife-sharp; lithe like a creature in the shadows and deadlier than any mere beast. His branching vallaslin only serves to fortify his otherworldly aura, graceful and out of place like a deer in a Chantry. And yet Dorian watches as the supposed Herald - yanked from his own world into the brewing wars of another - turns his face up into the glint of the sun and smiles so softly it could break a heart in twain. 

Needless to say, Falhashani Lavellan takes the world by storm. Dorian looks on and tries to convince himself he wouldn’t like to be in the eye of it.

 

\-- 

 

He tries to keep his distance. He really does.

Dorian is no fool. He knows that Lavellan is a dangerous man. The elf talks often about how the strategy completely escapes him, that battle planning and politics leave him confounded. But Dorian has watched him kill and it’s as incredible as it is unsettling, hand-crafted arrows sinking into soft bits with an uncanny accuracy. The Dalish didn’t often stray towards Tevinter (for obvious reasons), and so the altus couldn’t claim much knowledge of their elusive customs. Dorian knew, though, that his skill was not common place. The Herald of Andraste was a lofty title, but there was surely something unworldly about any man who had managed to live through quite so many impossibilities as Lavellan and still surface through the turmoil with that wry curve to his painted mouth.

At first, Dorian blames his interest on curiosity. He doesn’t go on missions often - Dorian has made it no secret how he feels about mud and snow and bogs, all of which happen to be the cheery settings of a vast majority of their outings. Solas and Lavellan had been close since before the collapse of Haven, echoes of Elvhen both new and ancient often drifting up to Dorian’s library nook, and so the Inquisitor was hardly at a loss for a mage in his party. Instead of trekking into the wilderness, Dorian mostly did research for the Inquisition and found a new pastime in digging up strange facts in an attempt to find something that would make the Nightingale laugh.

(He had succeeded once and only once, when he chanced upon a limerick in Tevene about Divine Beatrix I. Considering that she’d declared an Exalted March upon the country in question, it was particularly racy in protest. Leliana turned away from him around the third line, pretending to busy herself, but he heard her snort and considered this a grand victory.)

(Dorian also recounted it to Bull one night over a game of Wicked Grace.The Qunari proceeded to spit his mouthful of ale all over Dorian and his winning hand, and nearly broke a table as he pounded a fist against the poor wood in his laughter. Varric called him Spitshine for a week.)

For all of his time spent sequestered away, Dorian manages to speak to the Inquisitor… quite often, actually. He shouldn’t be surprised - Lavellan is nothing if not overly friendly, and Dorian s on the winding trail to Leliana and her rookery. He can hear the trail of hellos that follow Lavellan as he approaches -  _ See you, Pointy _ ;  _ On dhea’him, hallani _ ; _ Good to see you, Inquisitor _ \- so while it’s never an actual surprise when ears and a mass of twisted braids crest the stairwell, Dorian still likes to pretend he never suspected Lavellan’s appearance for a moment. Something about the shy smile, the way he never fails to cock his head and tuck a loose lock behind his ear like he can’t believe he’s taken Dorian by surprise again.

“Dorian,  _ ‘ma’lahdaral!  _ How are you?” Lavellan perches on the edge of his reading table, looking down to peer at the open book and pages of notes. Dorian is glad for his redirected attention, because the Dalish accent melts him a bit more than he anticipated and he has to clear his throat before speaking. Few clans still spoke fluent Elvhen, even Dorian knew that, and Lavellan happens to be one of the clans that stayed isolated enough that they spoke little else. The Inquisitor himself had been one of the tradesman, though, and so needed to know enough of the Trade Tongue that they could get supplies from cities passed and warn off anyone who came too close.

Dorian still wasn’t sure what the term meant, but Lavellan spoke it so fondly that he’d never dare question it. 

“Quite well, now that I’ve got a distraction. That was a rather quick trip back from the Storm Coast.” Lavellan groans at the mention of his most recent journey, leaning back on a hand to let his head roll back in exaggeration. It’s especially dramatic. Dorian doesn’t watch his vallaslin stretch against the dark skin of his throat. No, he arches a shapely brow and nudges Lavellan’s bare foot with his own booted one to prompt an explanation like any other man entirely unaffected by their surroundings. 

“Was horrible. Quickness was the only good thing.” The elf nudges back, lips curving, before he folds his legs beneath him on the table and launches into a detailed account - complaint - of the trip. Dorian listens closely and doesn’t get distracted a single time by the moving of his slanted mouth, or the peek of prominent collarbone from beneath a strapped tunic much too big for such a thin individual, or the way his callused toes wiggle when he gets particularly passionate about something. “Isn’t it just of the worst? I hate -”

“Just the worst.”

“Just the worst. My thanks. Where was I? Yes, I  _ hate  _ the stupid rocks.” Dorian laughs, nodding along and entirely enraptured. This was the friendship they’d built - complaining about the woes of the outer world, debating history and its validity. Dorian correcting Lavellan’s lilted common and Lavellan laughing like an  _ ass  _ when Dorian tries to pronounce anything in Elvhen. 

(“Fall- Falhasni? Falhasin?” “Pft - _Hronlahnas ‘ma’melinlah. Venedhun tarsul vi’dirthlah’ara._ Just say Falha.” “Well, if you insist. Ass.”) 

Dorian should start teaching him Tevene, just to hear the elf and his airy accent completely tromp over the finer points of Imperial language. That’d serve him right.

So, Dorian fails to keep his distance. He knows and acknowledges it, knows there’s no way he can justify giggling like children in a silent library where the glares only make them laugh harder. Dorian blames it on academia and tries not to think about it.

 

\--

 

After the initial distance of acquaintances starts to fade, the Tevinter altus and the Dalish hunter are thick as thieves. They pour over books together, bonding through their mutual passion for history and disdain for the careless mistakes of past empires. They discuss the devolving of ancient tongues into current ones, and if Dorian makes a quip about the importance of talented tongues then it’s only because the opportunity was so ripe. If Falha turns a rather pretty shade of burgundy, well, that’s just an interesting little side-effect, isn’t it? 

So they chat, and bicker, and sort-of kind-of flirt, and Dorian convinces himself it is all in the name of knowledge. Learning more about the man whose name will grace history books, learning about his language and his propensity to change colors after certain remarks. Learning what makes him snicker and what draws out a full-bellied laugh. Learning what pisses him off and makes his jaw clench, makes him chew on a bitter word and spit it out in a way that Dorian shouldn’t find so enticing. Learning Elvhen curses and endearments and learning that full phrases, while nonsense to listen to, make something twist behind the safety of his ribcage. 

It’s dangerous to get attached in general, considering his preferences. Tevinter was always about quick and easy. Sate your needs, then get back to business proliferating power and bloodlines. Love wasn’t in his cards, and Dorian had never considered it because he’d known his entire life that love would never have a place in his life. Shit, he didn’t even know that Falha liked men in the first place - a little blushing at some innuendo did not a  _ pulvinus _ make. Dorian would never be so foolish as to think it would be anything but words. If he were incredible lucky, maybe a memorable night to keep him warm for a while in the chill of Skyhold. Men couldn’t love each other - only want, and even then only for a moment so fleeting it might as well have never happened at all.

This, though, what they were doing - it wasn’t anything tangible, anything real. They were having fun. Or at least, they seemed to be. Dorian knew that nothing would come of it, and so he allowed himself a little freedom to fantasize. 

 

\--

 

“Tongue keeps tangling, tripping over air. How does one say a soft breeze?” 

Dorian jolts in surprise, not expecting Cole to be so close to him when his inner thoughts were bared suddenly to the open countryside. He looks up, making sure that Falha is still occupied with Bull a few paces ahead of them before he turns to entertain the spirit beside him. Seems safe, so he puts an arm around Cole’s shoulder and slows them down just a touch as a precaution. Can’t be putting all his cards on the table, after all.

Cole looks up at him with wide, innocent eyes. “His voice is like a canopy song in the jungles of home. The hard hammer of Tevene turns his name to tatters. How do I find his song when my beating drum buries it so deeply?”

“I suppose it just takes practice. Maker knows I’ve made a trainwreck of his language long enough that I’ll be doing something right, soon.” Dorian sighs, leaning back a touch to look up at the clear skies over them. The Emerald Graves, if a touch maudlin, had always been one of Dorian’s favorite locations for travel. Always temperate and always filled with green instead of the terrible misfortune of snow. Was this really so bothersome to him that Cole was going after it? It wasn’t like Falha was ever actually nasty about Dorian’s bumbling attempts.

“His kinsman sings it too, ancient but the same. How to impress if I cannot compare, how to compare if I cannot compete? Northern drums are nothing to a man for whom the whole world sings.” Cole tugs on Dorian’s sleeve, and when Dorian looks down the boy looks so damn earnest it almost makes up for the spinning in his head as he starts to understand what’s being said.

Ever helpful, Cole tugs again to be sure he has Dorian’s attention. So tactile for a spirit-come-human, Dorian thinks with the part of his brain that isn’t shouting distinctly to not listen. 

“If I could say it, would I play his heart-strings like he plays mine? Not yet falling, but tripping over air. If I had a harmony, I’d trade it for his l-”

“ _ Cole _ .”

Dorian has gone suddenly hoarse, gripping tightly onto Cole’s shoulder for balance. The boy goes just as tense, panicking just as quickly as Dorian has. 

“I made the hurt worse. I’m sorry, Dorian, I-” Cole clams up, looks at him and then the ground and then he disappears and Dorian almost falls at the sudden lack of support. Have his knees gone weak? How strange. Tight chest, rolling stomach - if he didn’t know any better, Dorian might think that he was having a mild panic attack at the mere suggestion that he might feel just a tad amorously towards the Inquisition’s darling leader. In fact, that seems exactly what’s going on, and Dorian woefully admits that he doesn’t know any better and wishes deeply that he did so that he might be in a situation other than the one he’s currently so entirely entrenched in. He’s so busy pondering his body’s completely inability to do anything but hunch over that when bare feet appear in his sight, he barely even registers whom they might belong to. 

“Er, Dorian?”

A wake-up call! Exactly what Dorian needs. Looking up, he sees the welcoming sight of Falha with his brows furrowed in what must be worry, his dark mouth set in a terse line. By the Maker, even his nose is scrunched.  _ Adorably _ , he thinks, before stomping the thought out as quickly as it came. The degree of endearing that Dorian finds this to be is, frankly, rather unsettling. It’s surely a wake-up call, but not the one he’s looking for. It’s just a reiteration of exactly what Cole was saying, and realizing the truth of it just seizes his chest right up again. It’s very troublesome, and Dorian tries to will it to stop. 

Stupid, idiot chest. Never listens to a word he says. Dorian considers beating it into submission.

“I’m perfectly alright, Inquisitor, just a cramp. Don’t worry your pretty little head.” Dorian manages a rather convincing smile, and is very proud of himself for appearing completely together other than his malfunctioning chest. But Falha, determined to be a problem with his horrible bleeding heart, cups Dorian’s face in both hands and looks over him with fervent concern. 

Dorian looks into Falha’s face, inches from his own and yellow irises ringed with a rich pink-orange tone he’d never noticed before. It sends a jolt through his traitorous body, as if he needed any reiteration that he was completely screwed. Dorian wishes desperately he could open a hole in the earth to take mercy on him and swallow him up.

No hole opens, no mercy is taken, and Falha strokes his cheek with a bony thumb. Dorian shuts his eyes and thinks of blood magic to keep from swooning, praying for this to be over as soon as possible.

 

\--

 

“ _ Na’iselenas ish? _ ”

Solas’ voice drifts up from the first floor of the atrium, pulling Dorian from his accidental reverie. He hadn’t turned a page in his book for quite a while now, instead just staring out the window at the stars hanging above the cresting mountains. It was quite pretty, and the library had been completely silent for what must’ve been a few hours now considering the late hour. Quiet enough that the voice jolted him into awareness, despite it being relatively quiet. 

“ _ Vin. Is… Ise’telithal. Teleolasan ish. _ ”

Falhashani. Dorian knows that voice better than he knows his own. He sounds soft, almost timid. Dorian doesn’t feel bad about eavesdropping, considering how he can’t understand a single word.

“ _ Laim marlava. Ahnsul nuas’i isa tiridianas? _ ” Solas scoffs, and Dorian can practically see the eye roll that accompanies the dismissive sound. Whatever Solas said draws a harsh bark of indignation out of Falha. It’s the only time Dorian has ever heard the Inquisitor angry with his elven friend.

“ _ Anbanal’ha. _ ” Falha practically spits it out, and Dorian sits up a bit straighter in surprise. The fury didn’t suit his voice, the breathy elegance of the language mangling in it’s vehement delivery. “ _ Telahnas telom’su’ish. _ ”

“ _ Tuast vis’nuvenan! _ ” Something thuds hard against a table, like one of them smacked something down in frustration. Falha makes a disgruntled noise that suggests it might’ve been him. “ _ Mar’isalathe felast. Nuvast on’el’nuven’inya mar’len. _ ”

There is a moment of silence, where Dorian assumes that either the argument is over or that the two of them are staring each other down. Someone sighs, and its quiet for so long that Dorian starts to think that Solas really did get the last word.

“ _ En tel’sildearelan _ , Falhashani.  _ Neal’nuan _ .” 

“ _ Is gonathe’lathalmanos. _ Dorian _ las then’ara’sal’in, hahren - telem’lasan." _

His own name on Falha’s tongue makes him start in surprise, any residual grogginess in Dorian’s mind vanishing as he realizes the source of their disagreement. Something sour roils up from his stomach to his throat at the same time that his heart kicks into over time. Dorian had never been more curious in his life.

The entire conversation was now ringing in his ears as Dorian tried to glean any sort of context he could. The disappointment in Solas’ voice was distinct, he knew that much. Solas had never been a fan of Dorian’s, no surprises there. There was always the chance, though, that the defensive tone of Falha’s voice was wishful thinking rather than reality.

They were friends - it wouldn’t be unheard of for Falha to defend him. The Inquisitor was hardly the type to waste time on anyone he didn’t think deserved it. There was something about the exchange that planted a traitorous seed of hope in him, one that Dorian resented but couldn’t bring himself to stomp out. Because Falha sounded defensive before Dorian knew who they were talking about ( _ him _ , they were talking about him) and he wants so badly to think that the man of his weakest dreams could - could want him.

Soft murmurs rose from the floor below as Dorian thought himself into a whirl, but it was too quiet to know what was being said. A door clicks shut and he realizes that the words had been goodbyes and the pair had gone their separate ways. Having had his fill of learning for the evening, Dorian began to collect his scattered things to call it a night himself. A sound halted him as he reached out - footsteps coming up from Solas’ room.

If it were his choice Dorian would prefer that neither party knew that he was privy to their conversation, if only on a surface level. But there was no way for him to escape without being heard, and being caught trying would make things a whole other degree of discomfiting. Instead, Dorian does the only logical thing he can think of - he sets down his things, slumps in his chair, and pretends to be asleep.

The steps almost pass him by before scraping the floor, and Dorian assumes he was noticed at the last moment. He doesn’t dare crack his eyes. Steady breathing, don’t twitch, don’t move - the steps came closer and Dorian could feel his heart beating so hard that he wonders if that might be what gives him away. 

The unmistakably warm smell of fresh growth and clove invades his nose as Falhashni leans close enough to touch. Dorian almost starts when soft, dry lips press to the unconscious furrow between his brows. A sigh warms his skin, a stray braid brushes his cheek; Dorian has to bite down on his tongue to control how immensely he aches to  _ touch _ . 

“Oh,  _ ‘ma’lahdaral. Ar vhen’an. _ You,” Falha whispers against his skin, making a sound almost like a whimper. “You are,” he starts again, only to stop again with a weak chuckle. “ _ Festis bei umo canavarum _ , sweet thing. You have not a clue.”

Falha walks away, footsteps fading as he makes his way to the upper floor. Dorian holds his breath until the silence returns and he can slip out unheard and unnoticed. He gets to his room in a daze, stumbles to his basin to wash the kohl and the feeling of Falha’s lips from his skin. Dorian stares at himself dumbly in the water’s reflection for a moment, sorting out his thoughts.

He doesn’t know a lick of what had been said, but Dorian is not so humble that he cannot hear affection in the voice of another. He knows that it meant something, knows that the playing field is changed but not a clue who has the upper hand. All that he knows is things are different now, and Dorian finds himself rather unnerved by the concept.

He doesn’t want different. He wants easy camaraderie, reading in the library nook, cheating poorly at cards. Different means risks and consequences. It means being responsible, vulnerable - it means that you don’t know what’s going to happen next, and there’s always a chance you won’t like the answer very much. Dorian hasn’t ever had anything real to sink his fingers into, and the possibility of it now seems nonsensical and not worth entertaining if only to disappoint him again. He looks for something else to grasp onto - something familiar, to make sense of the shift in footing. 

_ You will be the death of me _ . Not unless the damnable elf is Dorian’s own death, first - it is simply a race to the finish.

**Author's Note:**

> On dhea’him, hallani  
> -Good afternoon, friendly halla*  
> -*Hallani is Solas’ nickname for Falhashani, as his given name basically means ‘friend of the kindly wild’
> 
> ‘Ma’lahdaral  
> -My soothing voice 
> 
> Hronlahnas ‘ma’melinlah. Venedhun tarsul vi’dirthlah’ara.  
> -You are sneezing my name. You are havoc upon the sound of my language.
> 
> Pulvinus  
> -(lit.) headboard, pillow / (aka) derogatory term for a gay man
> 
> (Solas and Falhashani’s conversation.)
> 
> S: Na’iselenas ish?  
> -You are waiting for him?  
> F: Vin. Is… Ise’telithal. Teleolasan ish.  
> -Yes. He… He’s confusing. I don’t understand him.  
> S: Laim marlava. Ahnsul nuas’i isa tiridianas?  
> -He wastes your time. Why bother with his stunted heart?  
> F: Anbanal’ha. Telahnas telom’su’ish.  
> -Wiseass. Don’t speak poorly of him.  
> S: Tuast vis’nuvenan! Mar’isalathe felast. Nuvast on’el’nuven’inya mar’len.   
> -I will if I wish! Your infatuation is idiotic. You need better taste.  
> F: En tel’sildearelan, Falhashani. Neal’nuan.  
> -He is unfeeling, Falhashani. You will hurt yourself.  
> S: Is gonathe’lathalmanos. Dorian las then’ara’sal’in, hahren - telem’lasan.  
> -He is worthy of my devotion. Dorian gives me the contentment of love, old friend. I could not give that away.
> 
> Ar vhen’an  
> -I love you
> 
> Festis bei umo canavarum  
> -Tevene; You will be the death of me.


End file.
